


we faked our deaths (and that was fun)

by iguanastevens



Series: we'll get on (like a house on fire) [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Enemies to Lovers, Familial Abuse, Family Drama, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Graphic Violence, Otabek as heir to a financial empire, References to Suicide, Yuri as a cat burglar, background/minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 18:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18856177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iguanastevens/pseuds/iguanastevens
Summary: What's the difference between a birthday party and an assassination?According to Yuri Plisetsky, who is set on taking revenge upon the family whose actions have defined - and destroyed - his life, nothing.It just so happens that Otabek Altin agrees with him.





	we faked our deaths (and that was fun)

 

**By Invitation Only**

_Liza Morris, Spotlight News_

_August 17, 2018_

This season’s hottest event is also its most exclusive. That’s right - whether your day to day life consists of a shift at the office or a stroll down the red carpet, you’re almost certainly _not_ going to land an invitation.

Those of you who live under a rock – and we hear that most rocks have Twitter these days, so you might want to consider upping your social media game – are probably asking the obvious question: what _is_ this legendary bash, anyway, and why is it nearly impossible to get in?

Well, rock-dwellers, you’re in good company here, because this celebration is a birthday bash for none other than one of the nation’s wealthiest, and most reclusive, young socialites. Sources confirm that Otabek Altin will be the host and guest of honor on October 30 as he celebrates his twenty-first birthday.

Ironically, and despite his family’s fame, Altin is best known as an enigma. You won’t find him on Twitter or Instagram, and even Google turns up nothing more than a handful of articles regarding the tragedy that struck the Altin family seven years ago.

Rumors abound, both heart-wrenching and malicious, as to why Otabek Altin disappeared so completely from the public eye after his parents were killed by a gas leak in their country home when he was thirteen. Some said that the trauma of the event left him unable to cope with the stress of society, while others suggested that he, too, was severely injured and hidden away to conceal the extent of his condition. Yet more hushed whispers raised the prospect of something more sinister: that the gas leak itself was a cover for a far more violent act, and that Altin himself had killed his parents.

Of course, Otabek – through the family’s media contact – has a much simpler and less gruesome explanation.

“Mr. Altin enjoys his privacy,” says Anna Artamonova. “However, he must go to greater lengths than most to ensure that it continues.”   

Much of his fame stems from his parents, Dima and Nadine, who invested their own not-insignificant inheritances in a wide variety of entrepreneurial pursuits and charitable organizations. It was said that their generosity was only matched by their keen sense for business: rarely did a proposal with their backing fail, a noticeable anomaly in this cutthroat industry.

In spite of that, they weren’t stars: the Altin name only rose to prominence in the wake of the untimely deaths of Dima and Nadine, as the various ventures they funded were plunged into financial chaos.

Otabek is described by the few who have met him (and are willing to speak on the subject) as a serious, erudite young man who dedicates his time to academic pursuits, both artistic and scientific, as well as a striking array of physical activities. After the loss of his parents, he was cared for by his elder brother and only living family, Ruslan Altin, who has encouraged Otabek’s numerous interests. Rumor has it that he has earned degrees from at least two prestigious universities, trained under the best martial arts instructors in the world, and released several hit albums under a carefully protected pseudonym.

Is there any truth to this speculation?

It’s possible that only Otabek Altin could answer that question, and he seems unlikely to speak up on the subject.

So, if you’re feeling left out of the celebration, don’t worry – it’s not personal.

As we all eagerly wait for detail on this mysterious party, let’s extend a warm congratulations to Otabek as he reaches his 21st birthday.

 

_CORRECTION August 20, 2018: The Altin family’s media spokesperson is Anna Artamonova. Ms. Artamonova was incorrectly identified as Anya Artamonov._

_CORRECTION August 22, 2018: Otabek Altin’s birthday falls on October 31, the day following the celebration on October 30._

**RETRACTED 8/23/2018. This article is restricted to _Spotlight LLC_ records. External distribution constitutes a violation of the _Spotlight LLC_ nondisclosure agreement. **

       Yuri’s lips curl into a silent snarl under his mask. This was supposed to be a challenge. Instead, it’s merely frustrating, leaving him with equal parts irritation and anxiety fizzing in his blood.

       The mask itself had not bought him entry – no, that required several hours crawling through cramped, dusty ductwork – but it is enough to stop anyone from looking too hard at him.

       Not that they would anyway. His sneer grows. The guests, several dozen assorted politicians, celebrities, and businessmen, are all as self-absorbed as they are rich. Yuri could strip naked and waltz through the banquet hall, and none of them would spare him so much as a glance. Even the security wouldn’t be a problem – the guards Yuri spotted were tall, muscled, clothed in sleek tailored suits that cost more than a car, and looked incredibly intimidating as they hovered in the background.

       They had also failed to secure two easily scaled walls, twenty-seven windows, one rooftop door, a shadowed alcove under the main balcony, and the ventilation duct Yuri had crept into earlier. It’s security theater, and the service they provide is not safety but the beautiful illusion of it. They don’t expect any trouble… or if they do, it has been carefully worked into the night’s entertainment.

       This mansion, hidden away on its private island, is the perfect death trap.

       He watches the guests from above, peering at the glittering, frozen faces of the masquerade. There are birds of prey with hooked beaks, feathered angels, and sleek cats covered with – _ugh_ – what looks to be real fur. Mixed among them are the more daring, who have adorned themselves with abstract confections of jewels and mirrors and metal, their faceless forms standing out against their more traditional companions.

       It would be so easy to slip a knife between unsuspecting ribs, to land a bullet above a pair of vain, vapid eyes, but he can’t.

       That isn’t how Yuri is going to do this. His goal, from the beginning, has been to make it personal.

       He can’t make out his target in the crowd, but that may well be in his favor. If Yuri can’t find something, it means that it’s not there… and everyone is alone sometimes, stepping into the hall for a quiet moment or stumbling drunkenly to the toilet.

       Yuri inches his way through the vent until he finds an opening into a hallway that’s far enough away from the ballroom. Still, he listens for several long minutes, straining his ears for the soft sound of footfalls on the thick plush carpet, for whispered conversations or hushed trysts.

       The hall is empty. Yuri peers through the metal slats of the vent before dislodging it with a sharp kick. He climbs out, straightens up, and wedges the grate back into place.

       This is a party. He might as well have some fun, he decides, and begins his prowl.

 

**Claiming the Throne: Son Takes the Reins of Family’s Financial Empire**

_By_ NATALIA MALONE _and_ HUGO OLSEN – Business Weekly – Tuesday, May 22, 2012

 

Even tragedy cannot halt the meteoric pace of the financial service industry. It’s a harsh reality for twenty-year-old Ruslan Altin, who announced yesterday that he would be assuming responsibility for the Altin family’s extensive network of investment ventures.

“My parents dedicated their lives to supporting ingenious and overlooked entrepreneurs,” Altin explained during his brief public statement. “I believe that continuing their work is the best way to honor their memories.”

The declaration came only a week after his parents, Dima and Nadine, passed away after a gas leak in their summer residence. They leave behind two children, Ruslan and Otabek (13).

“We are grieving, yes,” added Mr. Altin, who also confirmed that he would be accepting legal guardianship of his younger brother. “However, I must continue to remind myself – and all others who have suffered such losses – that action, not apathy, is the antidote to despair.”

Despite their stellar reputation, Altin’s job is likely to be complicated by more than sorrow: it remains to be seen whether the myriad partners, corporations, and beneficiaries associated with the sprawling organization will trust the youthful and inexperienced Ruslan, or if they will set out for calmer waters in the inevitable chaos of transition.  

       “Excuse me,” calls a low voice. Yuri bites his lip to stop himself from jumping and forces back the adrenaline rush his visitor’s greeting had caused. He had not heard the man approach. “Can I help you?”

       “Oh, yeah, hi.” Yuri turns, the slightest sway to his movements, and lets a slur muddle his voice. He becomes another guest, dumb and drunk, a pretty boy with a tiger’s painted smile. He is invisible, just like the switchblade tucked into his sleeve and the gun in his vest. “I think I’m- oh, cool mask, dude. Nice.”

       It’s not a lie. Yuri is face to face with a snarling silver wolf, its face cut not from fur but from layer upon layer of grey silk, so thin that the ragged edge of each sheer piece floats and flowed like mist. The scraps of silk around the mask’s borders are long; these are tied back to create a tangled mane trailing down the back of his charcoal suit.

       “Can I help you?” he repeats, and ice creeps up Yuri’s spine. This might be a problem.

       “Uh-huh.” Yuri giggles. “I can’t find the bathroom? I’ve been looking for, like, ever.”

       The man’s eyes are invisible, shrouded in mask’s shadows, but his stare is heavy and hard.

       “I’ll show you.”

       “Uh, I mean, okay. Thanks.” Yuri’s blood is growing hot with anticipation. It burns his veins and pours clouds of steam into his lungs, melting the frozen shock struck by the stranger’s gaze.

       They wind through hallways that lead further and further from the ballroom.

       “Oh, wow, no wonder I couldn’t find it.” Yuri keeps his voice light and empty. “This place is a maze.”

       “I thought you might prefer somewhere more private.”

 _Yes,_ Yuri thinks. _Yes, that’s exactly what I want._

       The wolf pulls open a heavy oak door. The metal handle and the wood itself are polished to a mirror shine – his fingers leave smears where his hand catches the edge. The maids must be expected to buff it back to a perfect finish every hour.

       He’s been brought to a bedroom.

       Unlike the rest of the mansion, this room has no priceless art adorning the walls. It was not designed to be beautiful. Instead, it is almost bare – there is a bed with spotless white sheets, a desk, and a simple wooden chair. The only evidence that a living being resides there is a large set of shelves that stretch across one full wall. It is packed to bursting with books of every shape, size, and genre: Yuri spots a haphazard stack of novels shoved next to a series of mathematical textbooks. The titles are in more languages than he bothers to count.

       Yuri laughs.

       “Why don’t you tell me what you really want?” asks his escort. “Now that we won’t be… overheard.”

       “I think you know the answer to that,” Yuri purrs. The switchblade slips into his palm. “I’m here for you, Otabek. I’m so glad we could get a moment alone.”

 

**Rich, Wretched, and Reckless: When Troubled Teens Can’t Hit the Brakes**

_The Evening Observer - Bobbie Novik, Assistant Editor_

_December 12, 2014 (unpublished)_

**_ATTN:_ ** _Article has been RETRACTED prior to publication. This copy is retained for legal documentation only. Distribution, discussion, and unauthorized perusal of this material is in violation of The Evening Observer liability regulations. Infractions will be subject to legal action._

 

Every parent will tell you that all kids get into trouble. It doesn’t matter whether they’re wild or meek, bookish or sporty, social butterflies or wallflowers - at some point, they’ll make a mess. Failing grades. Inappropriate photos. Underage drinking. Every teenager has at least one story, and most of them end the same way: with adults, be they parents, teachers, or coaches, swooping in armed with discipline and experience.

But what happens to those adolescents who can’t be brought into line with chores and detentions?

It’s certain that Ruslan Altin, distinguished businessman and investment tycoon, has been asking himself that very question since his younger brother was booked into a local hospital on Sunday afternoon.

Otabek Altin, 16, was brought to the emergency room via taxi service. The cab driver, who wishes to remain anonymous, stated that Altin had been riding his motorcycle – which he’d received on his sixteenth birthday six weeks earlier - in an isolated area near the family property. The young man appeared ‘ill and distracted,’ and did not provide a name when he requested transportation to a medical facility. He denied the severity of his condition when emergency services were recommended, describing his ailment as ‘a headache.’

“I couldn’t believe my eyes when he gave me his credit card,” said the surprised chauffeur. “I knew the family lived around that area, but I never thought I’d see an Altin in my backseat.”

Further sources allege that Otabek’s symptoms included disorientation, slurred speech, an elevated heart rate, and hallucinations, and a confidential tip suggested that his bloodwork revealed high amounts of ketamine. Ketamine, informally known as ‘Special K,’ ‘Kit Kat,’ or ‘Cat Valium,’ is an anesthetic used in both human and veterinary medicine – however, it is revered throughout club and party scenes for the ‘trance-like’ state it induces in users.

Ruslan Altin, 23, has been his brother’s legal guardian since their parents’ deaths in 2012. He was notified of Otabek’s condition soon after his admittance to the hospital.

Otabek was later transferred to the care of a privately contracted physician. He is reportedly recovering without complications and is not expected to suffer any lasting ill effects from his ordeal, but a local toxicologist observed that the phone call may have saved his life.

“In addition to the potential risks of the drug itself, there’s the matter of the bike,” she told a reporter from _The Evening Observer._ “Ketamine’s effects include diminished reflexes, impaired judgement, and drowsiness, even in low doses – and this was not a low dose. If he had continued to drive, he would have certainly ended up in an accident.”

All kids get into trouble, but most of them don’t have the unimaginable wealth and privilege – and the limited adult supervision – of Otabek Altin. When one takes the trauma of being orphaned at age thirteen into account, it’s easy to see how wild behavior can escalate into life-threatening circumstances.

There is no word yet as to whether Otabek will be facing any drug charges related to the incident, and neither the Altin family nor their representatives could be reached for comment.

       Otabek Altin appears from behind the wolf, and Yuri’s grip on the blade tightens. They’re only a meter apart, if that. Sweat prickles under his suit jacket as he catalogues the details of his mark.

       He may be armed, he may not. Yuri doesn’t intend to find out. This isn’t going to be a fight, because that’s a fight he might lose. Otabek is several centimeters shorter, but the controlled confidence of his movements hints at the presence of well-trained muscles under his suit. His eyes aren’t hazy with alcohol or any of the other substances that spoiled heirs so love to play with: they are clear, dark, and emotionless. He is, every part of him, his parents’ son.

       There are tiny notches by his mouth that mark where dimples form when he smiles. If he ever smiles. Yuri swallows and grits his teeth, distantly wishing for Otabek to don his mask once more. It would be easier to kill him if Yuri couldn’t see his face, but that’s what he’s wanted all along – to see Otabek’s face as he died, knowing exactly what was happening and why.

       Otabek watches him, giving no sign that he’s noticed the knife in Yuri’s sweating hand, or that he’s realized that there will be no giggling fall into bed with his pliable, drunken guest.  

       “You’ll have to wait in line,” Otabek says at last. “Everyone else has an invitation.”

       Enough is enough.

       “I don’t think you understand,” Yuri growls. “That’s a shame. You were supposed to be smart.”

       “You are correct. I don’t understand.” Otabek kicks the door shut without taking his eyes from Yuri. He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall in a crumpled heap on the spotless floor, as he continues, “You won’t look like an accident. You won’t tell a story. I understand ketamine in my coffee. I understand a jilted ex looking for revenge. I do not understand _you._ ”

       None of it makes sense. It doesn’t matter.

       “Luckily for you, I’m in the mood to explain.” Yuri takes off his own mask, which has begun to press painfully into his nose and cheeks – and besides, it doesn’t matter if Otabek sees his face. He won’t be telling anyone. “Allow me to introduce myself.”

       “Yuri Plisetsky,” Otabek says, and the corner of his mouth curls into a humorless smile punctuated with a dimple. “The boy who doesn’t exist. I did not realize you had expanded into assassinations – a recent development, yes?”

       Yuri’s shaken, though not displeased, by the recognition. “My reputation precedes me, apparently.”

       “The rumors of it, certainly.” Otabek dips his head in acknowledgement. “They say that a couple, for reasons of their own, decided to keep their child a secret – a secret from the government, their friends, even their families. Some believe that they wished to raise the ultimate criminal, an individual with no records to trace. A living ghost. Others say that they were afraid that some cruel power would use their child against them. The perfect blackmail. Either way, they had the money and tenacity to follow through… and even if it was not their intention, their son learned to be invisible. He could hide before he could walk, and lie before he could talk. Now, when something vanishes without a trace – something sealed away with unbreakable locks, something under constant watch, something impossible to steal – everyone knows who took it. The boy who does not exist paid them a visit, and they will never see their treasure again. Of course, that’s just what they say.”

       “And do you believe them?”

       “Some.”

       Yuri is flattered - Otabek had done his research. “It’s a pleasure. Quite literally. I’m not here on business.”  

       “I can tell.”

       With that, Otabek grabs clumsily for the switchblade. Yuri blocks him easily, throwing up an arm to deflect, and skips back a step as he realizes that he’s put this off for too long. It’s time to get serious.

       He doesn’t see Otabek’s swift kick. His wrist twists with an agonizing crunch, which is echoed by the twin sounds of Yuri’s pained gasp and the crack of his knife hitting the wall as it flies from his grasp.

       “Bastard,” Yuri hisses through his teeth. _A feint._ His hand throbs. He can move it well enough, and he does, reaching into his own jacket as he lunges forward. The struggle is quick and dirty: Otabek wrenches himself from Yuri’s grip and jabs his elbow into Yuri’s stomach with the strength of a boxer, but it’s obvious that he’s never been in a real fight. He can spar, but Yuri has scrapped with the best of them and come out kicking. It’s over the moment Otabek lets Yuri slip behind him.

       Yuri doesn’t bother to pin him. This isn’t a movie, and any hold strong enough to lock Otabek in place is a weapon that can be turned against him. Instead, he lets the soft _click_ of the gun’s safety freeze Otabek in place and almost gently loops his other arm under Otabek’s shoulder, reaching up to grab a handful of his dark hair.

 

**At Long Last, Tide Turns in Favor of Financial Empire**

_Demi Lucas (Ed.) and Anais Vega_ _(Sr. Analyst)_ – The Sentinel – 2 July 2015

 

After nearly three years of difficulties following the sudden loss of Dima and Nadine Altin, founders and directors of what became a wide array of corporations including Fusion Investments and Myriad Solutions, the Altin financial empire has found new fortitude under the leadership of their eldest son, Ruslan Altin.

Ruslan shouldered the responsibility for both the family’s business enterprises and his younger brother in the wake of his parents’ deaths when he was only twenty years old. His youth and inexperience concerned clients and collaborators, many of whom proceeded to sever their ties with the financial network. Mr. Altin fought to maintain their formerly-irreproachable reputation, but these changes destabilized an already uncertain situation and lead to further complications for the young magnate.

However, recent developments herald an optimistic shift for Ruslan’s portfolio of companies, with last quarter’s gains yielding the best numbers since Ruslan took on his Herculean task. It appears that the battle – if not the war – has finally turned in his favor.

 

_CORRECTION 4 July 2015. Previous editions indicated that Otabek Altin, now 16, assisted his brother with the family business. Representatives for the Altin family have since clarified that, while Otabek is engaged in the study of financial and economic subjects, he is still too young to play a role in the work itself._

_CORRECTION 4 July 2015. It was stated that the West River Center for Technology and Development, which was shut down last year, was affiliated with the Altin family at the time of its closure. However, this partnership was dissolved in February 2013._

       “Don’t move,” Yuri instructs. He pushes the gun into Otabek’s back, wedging the muzzle under the curve of muscle that marks his lower ribs. “That was a very stupid thing to do. I expected more from the man behind the curtain.”

       “You’re-“

       “Mistaken? No,” Yuri murmurs, his lips close enough to brush Otabek’s ear. Their entanglement is as intimate as a lover’s embrace; Yuri can see the subtle twitch of muscles of Otabek’s sharp jaw, can feel the hammering thud of Otabek’s heart in his own chest. Yuri’s pulse is just as fast, drumming a wild harmony between them. “Everyone knows that Otabek Altin has been the brain of the operation since he was sixteen, no matter how fast your lawyers kill the stories. Ruslan, hard as he tried, just doesn’t have the mind for it. He was running it into the ground – that is, until you stepped in.”

       “I see.”

       “Do you?” Yuri’s hands are shaking. “Your family killed my parents, and all they wanted was to run their fucking restaurant without drug deals and torture sessions in the wine cellar. Did you know that I didn’t have a friend? Not a single one. That happens when you aren’t allowed to go outside because no one can know that you exist. That’s what your parents gave me, even before they took my mom and dad. And you, birthday boy, are carrying on the tradition.”

       Otabek starts to laugh, a muffled, hiccupping wheeze that seems involuntary. It’s a startling lapse of his nearly impeccable control.

       “Shut _up,_ ” Yuri snarls.

       Otabek ignores him.

       “You really believe that?” he chokes out. “ _That’s_ why you’re here, for revenge?”

       “I’d kill your parents, but they’re already dead.” Yuri tightens his grip on Otabek’s hair, jerking his head to the side. “Seems to me that the next best thing is putting an end to this whole sick business. How many people have died to keep you where you are, sitting pretty on your little island? And don’t tell me your money, all your money, isn’t fucking soaked in blood – and none of it yours. Does your family own one fucking business that isn’t a front? Did any of your dealers get to decide to join up, or did you just hand them the pen and let them sell their souls?”

       “Amazing.” Otabek’s voice cracks with another hysterical giggle. “Really, truly amazing. He spent all that money, all that careful planning. I’d love to tell him about it, see his face when he figures out he’s been wasting his time all along, but I suppose he’ll find out-“

       A series of loud taps breaks the spell. They jerk upright – Otabek lets out a grunt of pain as his hair is nearly wrenched from his scalp – and stare at the now-opening door.

       “Beka.” Ruslan Altin, dour and stern, casts a shadow where his body blocks the bright light illuminating the hallway. Yuri is moored to the spot. He staggers as Otabek’s rigid body relaxes without warning, melting bonelessly into Yuri’s arms and leaving him to support a significant portion of his weight. “Oh. I see.”

       “Sorry, Rusya, I-“ Otabek ducks his head in meek shame as Yuri’s appreciation for the scene snaps into place. The gun, still pressed to Otabek’s spine, is hidden from his brother’s view. They are both red-faced and panting, hair mussed and clothes askew: Otabek’s jacket lies discarded on the floor and the top buttons of his silken dress shirt are undone, pulled free or torn off entirely in their recent struggle. Yuri is fully dressed, but his suit is rumpled and he’s still standing behind Otabek, fingers tangled in dark hair. “I’ll be right back. I’m sorry.”

       “I expect you to clean yourself up properly.” Ruslan glances down at his watch. “You may have forty-five minutes. Do not be late.”

       He shuts the door.

       Yuri is stunned. He barely notices when Otabek, who is still docile and warm as he leans into Yuri, speaks once more.

       “You’ve never done this before.” The incongruous laughter is gone without a trace. “I have.”

       “What?” Yuri shifts to steady himself as his stupefaction is replaced with electric adrenaline.

       “I was sixteen the first time my brother tried to kill me,” Otabek remarks conversationally, his tone as neutral as a comment on the weather. “After that, I learned to make myself useful. I found that I have a talent for business. It was worth enough to buy me a few years.”

       “Obviously I can sympathize with him.” Yuri’s mind races. Rescue, improbable, impossible rescue, had arrived, and Otabek sent him away. Not to protect Ruslan – not if he was telling the truth. “But, if you don’t mind my asking, why?” He jabs the gun into the spot above Otabek’s right kidney. “That, by the way, was rhetorical. Answer.”

       “He inherited nothing.” Otabek shrugs. “Some money, some land. The business, though? That’s all mine, held in trust by Ruslan until I am old enough to accept it. Our parents shared your opinion regarding his management skills.”

       “And if you are unable to accept it?”

       “If I die before the holdings are legally transferred to my name, it stays in the family. Once the paperwork is signed, everything is dispersed according to the terms laid out in my will.”

       “In which, I suppose, you did not see fit to include your brother.”

       “No. Not after the second attempt on my life.”

       Yuri sucks in a deep breath. He hates Otabek. He hates the entire Altin family. It’s nothing compared to the instinctive, visceral repulsion he’d felt when Ruslan appeared in the doorway.

       “I suggest that you think very carefully about what you say next,” Yuri says slowly. “Where exactly would your will send the Altin enterprises?”

       “Nowhere,” Otabek replies easily. “Complete liquidation. Every asset would be dissolved and the resulting funds distributed via anonymous donations amongst a series of carefully selected charities following stipulations that the recipients remain undisclosed for no less than twenty years after receiving the money – that is, unless the arrangements have been finalized before my death.”

       Yuri exhales. “You’re selling it.”

       “I’m destroying it,” Otabek counters coolly. “I know exactly who my parents were.”

       The click of the safety being snapped back into place seems louder than a gunshot in the silent room. Yuri steps back.

       “Don’t make me regret this,” he says without conviction. “How old do you have to be?”

       Otabek rubs the side of his head absentmindedly. His hair, where it hangs long over the buzzed part of his undercut, sticks out in sweaty spikes where Yuri had pulled it.

       “Twenty-one.”  

 

**Young Couple Lost in Fire**

_Amalia Torres reports this story and more on Local12 News at 10: the stories that matter to you matter to us. 7 June 2011._

Area residents were shocked and saddened by the loss of two long-term members of the community. Iosef Plisetsky, 34, and Nadezhda Plisetskaya, 36, were confirmed dead after a fire ravaged their ravaged their suburban home in early June in what officials believe to be a result of faulty wiring.

The couple were best known as the dynamic duo who ran Coupe, one of the city’s most admired restaurants. To Coupe’s regular patrons, Nadia and Oska – as their guests referred to them – were as much of a draw as the eatery’s specialty cocktails.

“I couldn’t stop crying when I heard,” said Ida Carver, who has been a regular at Coupe since it opened its doors twelve years ago. “Nadia and Oska have been part of my life for so long.”

Ida elaborated on her ties to the Plisetskys.

“We’d made a reservation,” she recalled, referring to the first date with the woman she later married. “But Oska took one look at us together, winked, and sat us at a little table in the corner instead.”

That table, dubbed ‘The Nook’ by locals, is a sought-after spot for romantic, candlelit dinners, as well as the location in which Mrs. Carver proposed to her wife several years later. Oska and Nadia had apparently been expecting the development and brought out a bottle of champagne, specially marked for the occasion, as soon as the ring was in place.

It’s a uniquely touching story that speaks to the warm, welcoming characters of Nadezhda and Iosef, but Ida Carver and her wife aren’t alone – it seems that dozens of other Coupe patrons have their own fond memories of the Plisetskys. If anything could surpass the care Oska and Nadia showed for their community, it’s how much their community loved them back.

Despite their deeply personal ties to their guests, no one seems to know much about Nadezhda and Iosef.

“They kept to themselves,” says Flavia Boone, who works in a bakery several blocks from Coupe. “I’d see them around occasionally, but we never stopped to chat. They weren’t rude about it – I got the impression that they were exhausted from the restaurant, so I let them be. I knew we’d catch up later.”

Coupe was certainly a labor of love. While food service is universally known as a difficult industry, this restaurant had a particularly rough start. Iosef and Nadezhda, both in their early twenties at the time, were passionate but inexperienced. It would have come as no surprise had the doors closed mere months after the grand opening, but a stunning turn of fortune saved Coupe in the nick of time. Fusion Investments, a subsidiary of the prominent collection of companies headed by the Altin family, stepped in with an offer: they would purchase Coupe and guide the business towards successful practices, and in return, Fusion Investments would receive a percentage of the future profits.

This soon showed itself to be a winning proposition for both all parties involved as the restaurant’s popularity soared, and for their part, the Plisetskys never expressed resentment regarding the ownership of Coupe, which officially transferred to Fusion Investments once the deal was signed.

“We’re here because we love the food, we love the people, we love the restaurant,” Nadezhda reportedly explained. “As long as we have that, we couldn’t be happier.”

Coupe’s difficult beginning wasn’t the end of their troubles, however: while sailing was smooth for several years, the restaurant was the subject of a purported drug bust conducted by local authorities in late 2009. Tensions were high, particularly due to Coupe’s ties with Fusion Investments. In the end, though, all charges were dropped and Coupe was reopened, an event that was met with joy from both the Plisetskys and the community they served.

Fusion Investments insists that Coupe will continue without Iosef and Nadezhda, but their customers aren’t so certain.

“I don’t think I can go back knowing that Nadia won’t be behind the bar,” said Edward Gilbert, who has frequented the establishment for several years. “She and Oska would hate to see it closed, but I can’t imagine Coupe without them.”

It’s clear that the deaths of Nadezhda and Iosef have had a profound effect on their beloved community. Whether or not Coupe’s doors stay open, we can be sure that the restaurant - and the young couple whose passion and kindness made it dear to so many of our neighbors - will be remembered for a long time to come.

Nadezhda Plisetskaya and Iosef Plisetsky left behind no children, and no family members could be reached for comment.

       “Huh.” Yuri makes a guess at the time. “So you have, what, two hours left? That seems manageable.”

       “Nothing is official until the documents are signed. I’m scheduled to meet with the lawyers first thing tomorrow.” The subtext is clear: Otabek doesn’t believe he’ll make it through the night. “Thirty-four minutes. Better get on with it.”

       “Be quiet. I’m trying to think.”

       Otabek rolls his eyes, but his hands are trembling as he crosses his arms over his chest. The fight in him is gone - it had drained away the moment his brother opened the door. “It’s simple math. The longer we wait, the sooner someone comes looking for me and the less time you have to get out.”  

       Yuri gapes.

       “You’re not seriously-“

       “Do I have a choice?” Otabek interrupts, shooting Yuri a dark glance. “At least this is on my terms, and I get the satisfaction of knowing he’ll be inconvenienced by the investigation until he can pay off the police. Most of the companies will fail soon enough – certainly, Ruslan will never maintain the level of power he currently enjoys. You get everything you wanted.”

       “You’re giving up. You seriously went to all that work convincing me not to kill you, and now you’re asking for it.”

       “If you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it. Otherwise, give me the gun.”

       “The guests-“

       “Are all beneficiaries of my brother’s ventures. Every one of them would slit my throat if he told them to.” Otabek sighs. “Even if he hadn’t given them more money than you can imagine… everyone knows about what happened to your parents, even if they don’t admit to it, and they weren’t the only ones.”

       “Fuck. Fucking shit. You’ve lived like this?”

       “If you can call it that,” Otabek says wryly. “Now don’t go feeling sorry for me.”

       “Fuck you.” Yuri frowns. “Do you think he’ll actually try something at the party?”

       “It wouldn’t be him. He doesn’t get his hands dirty. But honestly, no. Everyone would lie for him, but Ruslan is too cautious – he’d never trust them to lie well enough unless he had no other choice. I believe, so long as he is confident that better circumstances will arise, that nothing will happen if I remain near as many people as possible.”

       “So a few hours. How late do you think it will go?”

       “Not very.” Otabek grimaces. “After all, I have to be up early tomorrow.”

       The security inside the mansion is a joke, but Yuri winces as he thinks back to the perimeter skirting the island. That, at least, is deadly serious, with emphasis on the _deadly_ part of it. Making a run for it was out. He’d been planning to wait for his deed to be discovered and swim back to the mainland in the ensuing chaos, but that particular diversion isn’t an option.

       “He has to realize that he needs you,” Yuri muses. “He made a fucking mess of it before.”

       “Arrogance,” explains Otabek, giving another shrug. “He thinks he can manage it now. He’s never had a mind for business on such a large scale, though he may be quite capable of maintaining a smaller sector of industry. And, in addition to that, he knows – or at least, he suspects – my plans to transfer all significant assets to interests over which the Altin name has no dominion. Besides-“ his lip curls- “I would rather die than spend any more my life under his thumb.”

       “For fuck’s sake, you really can’t talk like a normal person, can you?” Yuri grunts as he teases it apart in his mind. “So, you die, he loses most of it but not everything. You don’t die, everything is gone.”

       “That is accurate.”

       “Most people would just say ‘yeah,’ in case you didn’t know.”

       “Oh, and he hates my guts because our parents loved me more, and he’s sure that I’ll buy his head as soon as I can.”  

       Yuri snorts. “That’s more like it.”

       They fall silent.

       “I suppose calling the police is out.”

       “He got there first. Money can buy a lot of turned heads.” He pauses. “The last time- the only time I tried that, I found a suicide note in my own handwriting on my bed.”

       “Holy shit. How old were you?”

       “Sixteen.”

       “That was a bad year for you. Sweet fuckin’ sixteen.” Yuri tries to roll the tension out of his shoulders, then drops down to sit on the floor. His feet hurt. Otabek joins him. “Can’t run, can’t hide, but what if- what if he stopped looking for you?”

       An idea is sparking in the back of his mind, but Yuri can’t quite reach it yet.

       “He wouldn’t. Not unless he watched me die.”

       The mansion, its architects dissatisfied with mediocrity in any form, is set upon a cliff that jutted out over the open sea. One wall of the ballroom us made up of floor to ceiling windows, and the attached balcony has a glass floor that offers an unimpeded view of the crashing waves a few dozen meters below.

       “That… could be arranged.”

       “Changed your mind?” Otabek asks with an edge to his voice. “Twenty-five minutes, by the way.”

       The balcony railing is the weakest point in the mansion’s security: a solid metal panel, a meter high, with mirrored panes that made the entire ballroom glow in the light of the setting sun… and, most importantly, a solid half-meter of concrete and steel that joined the structural joists. Maybe it’s a safety feature, or maybe they just didn’t want ugly edges to mar their fancy glass floor.

       “No, you idiot, I’m about to save your ass.”

       “It’s a good ass. What about the rest of me?”

       “I’m working on it.”

       The balcony. The tiny alcove, just enough for two people, untouched by the spotlights and hidden from view by the massive joists that supported the structure. The unmonitored wall with its insecure windows. A fall, tumbling down to strike the crashing waves and jagged rocks so far below that even the keenest eye could pick out none of the gory details.

       This is the caliber of challenge that Yuri had been hoping for.

       “Okay. We’re gonna need a couple of books and one of your other suits, as similar to the one you’re wearing as possible. Can you keep people away from the balcony for, uh.” Yuri pauses, calculating wildly. “Fifteen minutes should be enough.”

       Otabek is staring at him like Yuri’s just sprouted tentacles. “Yes. I can manage that.”

       “Great. What do you need for your legal shit?”

       “ID. Driver’s license, passport, and birth certificate at the minimum if I want to avoid any delays.”

       “You don’t-“

       Otabek shakes his head. “Of course not. I’m too much of a flight risk. Ruslan keeps all of that in his office.”

       “I can manage.” He’ll have to pick up some plastic bags, too. They’d be getting wet.

       “I’m sure you can.” Otabek’s eyes are gleaming. Hope is a good look on him, Yuri decides.

       “One last thing. How are you with heights?” Yuri asks with a wide, toothy grin, and begins to explain.

       “We are probably going to die,” Otabek mumbles afterwards. He’s pale, but a small smile – the first real smile Yuri has seen from him, even in photos – rests on his lips.

       He really does have dimples.

       “Maybe,” Yuri agrees. “But what a way to go.”

 

**Disaster Strikes As Heir Celebrates**

_Live at the scene with Mollie Ingham – Associated Press, 31 October 2018._

_Last updated at 1:47 AM, 31 October 2018._

Emergency crews are converging on a tiny island that rises from the ocean approximately one kilometer off the North Beach. This island, which can only be reached by boat and helicopter, holds one of the several homes owned by the Altin family. The Altins are known for their significant influence in the financial and investment sectors. Although the family has spent much of their time on the island in recent years, this mansion in particular is said to be their preferred location for highly private, exclusive gatherings, including conferences and retreats for the elite of the wide-ranging Altin enterprises.

 It was at one of these events – a birthday celebration for the Otabek Altin, the younger of the two siblings, who officially turned twenty-one at midnight – that tragedy struck. Witnesses say that a masked man entered the main ballroom and banquet hall shortly after midnight and made his way towards the balcony. In other circumstances, this might have aroused suspicion, but this party happened to take the form of a masquerade ball. The intruder was able to pass without notice – just another guest under his mask, which reportedly depicted the face of a snarling white tiger.

Unfortunately, this man wasn’t a harmless party-crasher looking for a thrill. Bystander reports indicate that he crossed the dance floor and headed directly for Otabek Altin before drawing a gun from his jacket. With the youngest Altin held at gunpoint, he demanded that the guests remove all valuables and back away from the door. The guests, stunned, looked to Ruslan Altin for guidance, but he was immobilized with shock at the threat to his younger brother, to whom he served as a legal guardian after their parents’ death until Otabek reached the age of eighteen.

Instead of making his exit, however, the intruder retreated to the balcony, dragging Otabek Altin with him – and Otabek, perhaps sensing a moment of weakness and confident in his own notable skills in martial arts, attempted an escape.

The plan went horribly wrong. The two stumbled backwards and toppled over the railing towards the ocean below, leaving the guests’ surprise and fear to turn to horrified shouts.

No bodies have been recovered, but as the minutes tick by, authorities at the scene grow increasingly convinced that Otabek Altin perished in the accident, along with his mysterious assailant.

       “Holy fuck,” Yuri breathes. “They bought it. They actually bought it.”

       He can feel Otabek’s answering nod on his shoulder. They’re squeezed so tightly into the tiny nook that Yuri has to keep his breaths shallow for fear of dislodging Otabek and sending him to actually plunge to his death.

       “You can prove all this, right? It won’t matter how much he’s bribed the cops.”

       “Once I sign those papers?” Otabek chuckles. “Once I sign those papers, I can do anything I want, and sending my dear brother to prison for the rest of his life is at the top of the list.”

       “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

       Waves crash beneath far them.

       “How long do we wait?” Otabek’s question is more of a rumble in his chest than speech. They don’t have to be so quiet, with the wind and waves and screams to hide their voices, but neither dares to make a sound.

       “Until they’re off the balcony, but before the police show up.”  

       Yuri almost misses what happens next.

       “You’re amazing,” Otabek whispers. “You know that, right?”

       “You’re just saying that because I saved your life,” Yuri mutters back. “But yes, I am aware that I am amazing, though I do have to point out that this is coming from someone who’s managed a financial empire since he was sixteen while dodging constant assassination attempts.”

       “Intermittent assassination attempts.”

       “My case stands. Can’t relax yet, though.”

       It might be the thrill of near-success, of taking on impossible odds and coming out on top, or the heat between their bodies where they’re crammed together. It might be anything.

       It doesn’t matter. Yuri shifts to find his mouth pressed to Otabek’s neck, and Otabek moans as the kiss turns to quick, teasing bites along his jaw. Then Otabek inhales sharply and it’s Yuri’s turn to moan as deft fingers trace his inner thigh.

       “Careful,” Otabek murmurs. “Don’t fall.”

       “Get any closer to my dick and what happens, happens,” Yuri hisses back.

       “Maybe later, then. Unless…”

       “Unless what?” Yuri’s seeing stars. He squeezes his eyes shut.

       “Unless you’ve changed your mind about killing me. You couldn’t ask for a better moment.”

       “You’re not-“

       “I’ll understand if the temptation gets too strong.” Otabek’s breath ghosts across his cheek. He’s laughing.

       “That was a fucking joke? What the fuck, Altin.” Otabek should be the last person to joke about murder – but then again, Yuri supposes that the casual threat of death becomes a bit blasé after the first year or so. Otabek’s palm is hot on his leg. “Okay, yeah, you’ve gotta move your hand.”

       “Which way?”

 _Up,_ Yuri thinks. Up would be good. No, up would be bad. Up would be very, very good for a split second and then very, very bad in the horrible splashing death sort of way. But down… down sounds even less appealing.

       He can’t answer.

       Otabek squeezes his leg.

       “Jesus fucking Christ, you are going to kill us both,” Yuri squeaks, slamming his head back and smacking a metal beam. “Fuck!”

       “But what a way to go, right?”

       Yuri bites his tongue until he can focus his eyes again and then turns his head. This time, he has Otabek’s lower lip between his teeth.

       What a way to go, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and inspiration from misremembered lyrics of Tell Me What To Do by Metro Station.


End file.
